


Six Acts

by night_is_where_the_romance_is



Category: Now You See Me (Movies)
Genre: Fluff, Light Angst, Memories, One-Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-03
Updated: 2016-08-03
Packaged: 2018-07-29 02:55:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7667524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/night_is_where_the_romance_is/pseuds/night_is_where_the_romance_is
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six Acts. Six big finales. Six big memories for J. Daniel Atlas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Six Acts

J. Daniel Atlas.

He didn’t know where the J. had come from, he just knew that having a first initial rather than a first name made him seem more impressive. More elusive. More - more _not_ Danny.

Not the little kid his parents didn’t want, not the kid that saw Granddad get shot.

J. Daniel Atlas.

One of the famous Horsemen, thought of as noble Robin Hoods’ of the 21st Century. Stealing from corrupted authority figures to give back to the screwed over masses. Steal from the rich, give to the poor. And sure, maybe they broke a few laws (or 147, but who was counting?) doing so, but if there was no one to expose the manipulation and maliciousness of companies that were supposed to cater worldwide but instead catered to themselves and their bank accounts, who would? Not the SEC, not the FBI, not Interpol. Little alphabet boys and girls, more interested in the paychecks than the justice. They were too concerned with themselves. With their image. With the perceptions of the public.

The Horsemen didn’t care who thought they were saints and who thought they were thieves, they only cared about if they’d done what their group of skill sets had been created to do: expose corruption. Give money back to those to whom it belonged.

Give a show that no one would ever forget along the way.

Vegas was still hazy in his memory, the edges of the sight from the stage had become fuzzy, like it might’ve been a dream he’d mistaken for reality. Which it very well could’ve been, given all the shiny black paneling, neon blue lights, and high-tech nonsense (teleportation helmet? Really?) that they’d had lying around to distract from the misdirection that was lying right in front of everyone’s eyes. Vegas had been pumping adrenaline and disbelief that quickly turned to screaming excitement. 

New Orleans was mystic and wary - the maroon velvet seats where people got back hundreds of thousands of dollars in seconds, the uniquely cut stage where he was a star. The culture of voodoo and taboos melding together with the intricate efficiency of their second act. The adoring sounds of joy and thankfulness that had made the run three hundred forty-seven seconds later worth every bit of endurance it had taken him. 

New York City had been dark and metallic - the twisting and turns of the projections and holograms that had the audience flicking their eyes every which way, the graffiti that left streaks of pink, black, green, orange, yellow, and white on the soles of his shoes. And red -  it had clung within his hands for days, had crept into the creases of the lifelines on his palms, had hitchhiked along with him through the flecks crusted underneath his fingernails. New York had been full of harsh blackouts and limelights pooling around his feet like white-washed blood. New York had the exhilaration of throwing himself off of a roof and leaving clouds of money raining dollars down in their wake. 

Octa had been extreme - highs and lows of sharp tricks and baffling surprise for both them and the audience. The aura of the Horsemen had changed to become a little less trusting, in a sense, and a little more self-aware. Always looking for the escape plan before looking for the entry point. There had been cold concrete frantic behind the scenes, whether or not it was the constant shedding skins he’d formed, the slick sleight of hand and hypnotism, or the perfectly choreographed distractions in front of eyes that didn’t realize that they were staring at a blind spot. It had been technique from both ends and devious to nearly a fault. Well, their fault.

Macau had been loud - bright casino lights and sterile hallways that still had the same pounding heartbeat in his ears. The searches that left him breathless and wary and the on-the-fly thinking on all ends - Jack, Lula, Merritt, him - that led to a screaming-tire escape and a prayer that they didn’t check the security footage too closely.

London had been unreal. London had been perfect - anticipation meeting amazement and becoming one that was the suspense behind trick after trick, illusion after illusion. The plane in the middle of the Thames, the reveal broadcasted worldwide that ended with handcuffs that were finally, _finally_ on the right people: the people that used others as pawns leading up to their win of millions of marked dollars, marked for other people that deserved that money, that earned that money, that finally had that money. London had been laser-focused eyes tracking his every move and hearts stopping at every flick of his wrist, stopping nature for a show. London had been why he’d become a magician.

J. Daniel Atlas.

One of the famous Horsemen.

J. Daniel Atlas.

Magician for the ages.

J. Daniel Atlas.

A name no one would ever forget, the man who gave shows that changed the world.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, and thank you so much for reading!! This was really a fun one-shot to write, because it was so interesting to get into the mind of Atlas. I thought he would see memories as more overall bursts rather than specific words or 'scenes', and it blossomed into this! If you have any comments, reviews, or suggestions, please leave them in the comments section below! Thanks!!
> 
> -Night


End file.
